The Unexpected
by Alexandra Spar
Summary: My first actual Discworld fic. Ankh-Morpork has survived fire, civil war, really bad movies, and the leaflet campaigns of Reg Shoe; what happens when an opportunistic and outgoing microbe decides to throw itself into the mix?
1. Default Chapter

DISCLAIMER DISCLAIMER DISCLAIMER: I own no one except Audax, whose name means "bold" in Latation. All canon characters and their related indicia belong to Terry Pratchett, and I'm not nicking them, nor am I picking up unconsidered trifles; I merely wish to borrow them for a little while. 

This is gonna be long, I think. I'm writing it at work while trying to look busy. Those of you familiar with medical history will probably think the pump in Marrow Lane rings a bell.

The thing about Ankh-Morpork….the thing you have to remember…is that it's dirty. Big, and dirty. And while parts of it are generally being sterilized by way of accidental dragon-burnings and Alchemists' Guild explosions, it is almost exactly what one would wish for, if one wished for a giant vermin-ridden reservoir for opportunistic microbes. We're not even talking microbes that need a specific vector for transmission; no, these are the sort of microbes that muscle their way into unsuspecting victims and engage in gleeful wholesale destruction. The fact that this hasn't yet occurred to anyone in a position of power in the city is merely further proof that something nasty is going to happen, and when it does, it will be made nastier by the fact that no one will be prepared.

And with that gentle bit of foreshadowing, I invite the reader to follow into the streets of the Big Wahooni (taking good care not to step in anything that looks as if it can dissolve boot soles) and explore. Smell the warm hint of ancient sugar in Treacle Mine Road; walk briskly in the other direction from the Shades; lean negligently in a doorway as a cartload of peaches narrowly misses a cartload of beer barrels; try to avoid smelling the river; saunter down Cable Street, pausing to pick up a deep-fried rat with ketchup at Gimlet's deli; wonder at the things displayed in the Street of Cunning Artificers; dissuade Dibbler from selling you chemically reclaimed pig products inna bun; enjoy the amusing noises coming from behind the walls of Unseen University, and shake a fist at Scoone Avenue's wealthy elite, none of whom would give someone like _you_ the time of day.

But who is this coming down Nob Hill with a brown iron helmet jammed on his head, tossing his truncheon gently in the air and catching it again, cigar drooping from the corner of his mouth? And why does he look as if there is something wound very, very tightly inside him, as if he is never very far away from snapping and using that truncheon to rearrange somebody's skull?

His Grace Commander Sir Samuel Vimes wasn't in a particularly bad mood, actually. No one was currently trying to kill him; nothing was currently trying to destroy, set fire to, maim or invade the city, or at least nobody had told him about it yet, so he didn't feel he had to do anything about it. He wished it was raining, though. That'd make things perfect.

He crossed into Pseudopolis Yard, tapping the truncheon absently against his leg, and nodded to some of the new recruits being led on patrol by Detritus. What _had_ he done without Detritus, he wondered. Yelled a lot, perhaps.

Inside the Watch House, Nobby was taking down particulars from a young woman wearing battered chainmail and smoking a roll-up. Vimes raised an eyebrow, but merely sauntered past them and up the stairs to his office, where—of course—Carrot had neatly arranged his paperwork in little piles. He wished the man wouldn't _do_ that, it destroyed his own organizational system. Which, admittedly, consisted of three or four heaps on and around the desk in constant rotation by urgency, but still, _he_ knew where everything was. Carrot was so innocently keen that Vimes never found he had the heart to tell him not to do things like that, but it did get wearing after a while.

He riffled through the reports from the previous night. Six drunk-and-disorderly, one totally insane and making a disturbance in Sator Square outside the Palace—he rather thought he could smell Foul Ole Ron on that one—and a bizarre and incoherent plea from what Colon described as "A Student of Wizardry, viz. he had on a pointy hat but was not per, say of full Wizarding Size and Dignittie," demanding that they shut down the public pump in Marrow Lane before something horrible happened.

Vimes tossed the stack of reports aside. The pump in Marrow Lane supplied water (of sorts) to a whole neighborhood; there was no way he was going to close it off unless he had a damn good reason, and skinny magic students blithering about horrors weren't, in his opinion, damn good reasons. Colon had sent the Student of Wizardry on his way with a warning not to bother the Watch about nightmares, and maybe watch how many he had next time he was in the Bucket. 

He lit another cigar, wondering when Nobby would come and see him about the girl in the chainmail downstairs. Perhaps the seamstresses were trying out a new look? The only women he'd seen in chainmail were the admittedly small number of Watchwomen in the city, and maybe one or two of the smarter kind of adventuresses who'd realized that bronze bikinis don't do much by way of stopping crossbow bolts. He gave a mental shrug and turned his attention to the new crop of angry letters about the ethnic makeup of the Watch, suppressing the thought of Cheery Littlebottom's abortive experiments with eyeliner.

"Er," said Nobby, trying to keep his eyes on the grubby bit of paper in front of him, rather than the new volunteer. "Right. Previous experience, medical officer in Genua Day Watch….Lord Mountballoy's Select Foot…?"

"Very small infantry regiment," said the young woman in the chainmail. "Famous for not taking part at all in any glorious battles, because we were generally sent on ahead to tire the enemy out a bit before the Selachiis or the Venturis brought their boys in." She gave him a rather snaggled grin. Nobby squinted at her teeth, then thought better of it. So what if she had teeth like Angua's?

She noticed him trying not to stare, and her grin widened. "I had them sharpened," she remarked. 

"What for?" Nobby couldn't quite keep the fascinated dread out of his voice.

"It had a helpful effect on the sort of criminals we used to catch in Genua." She stared glumly at the end of her roll-up, which had gone out. "Say… were you ever in the military, Corporal Nobbs?"

"Er, yeah," he said. "Sev'ral militaries."

"Thought so." She folded her arms. "Can we get on?"

"Yeah. Yeah," he said, changing colours slightly as he tried not to look at her torso. "Right. Reason for leaving prior employment?"

"Genua was getting a little hot," said the new volunteer. "You know how it is."

"Ah," said Nobby, nodding. "Couple things too many went missing, people started asking questions they dint ought to?"

She suppressed a smile. "Sort of."

"Well, we can't be having with any of that sort of thing 'ere," said Nobby firmly, with the selfrighteousness of the true-blue hypocrite. "Old Vimes'd go spare if Watchmen was caught stealing."

"I can assure you, Corporal, that will not be a problem."

Nobby didn't realize until afterwards that this wasn't a very comforting answer at all. He forged ahead. "All right, the pay's fifteen dollars a month, armour an' training taken out of your first month's pay, 's a good life if you don't weaken, come with me and Commander Vimes'll see you."

The volunteer nodded and got up, producing a dog-end from behind her ear and lighting it with a strange little metal cylinder from her pocket. Nobby made a mental note to have a closer look at it at the earliest opportunity.

He knocked on Vimes's door. "Volunteer recruit to see you, sir."

Vimes, sounding incredulous through the door, called back "Tell him to come in."

Nobby gave the young woman an apologetic glance, and fled. She grinned another of those pointy grins at the door, and let herself in.

Vimes was sitting with his feet up on the desk and a cigar balanced carefully on his lower lip, reading the _Times_. He sat up as she came in and held out her paperwork for him to examine, and stared. She was one of the oddest-looking people he'd ever seen. Short and thin, with unremarkable pale hair and green eyes, a pointed, tired face that looked as if it had seen rather too much of the world for someone still the right side of thirty, and the chainmail hung on a figure that looked rather wirier than he'd expect. She came forward, still holding out the papers, and he shook himself and took them, gesturing for her to sit down. 

"Audax, eh?" said Vimes.

"Blame my parents. They had classical educations and wanted a boy." She let smoke trickle from her nostrils, gently. Vimes squinted at her.

"No last name?"

"Nope." No explanations, either. He wasn't sure he liked that, but he was willing to wait for them. 

"Well, Audax, you've got an….interesting resume," he continued. "Says here…Medical Officer in the Genua Watch? Where'd you take your medical degree?"

"Here and there," she said, and gave him a little smile, aware that he was getting fed up. "I never got the degree, actually. Sort of learned it on the fly."

He read further. "In the army?"

"Yes. It's surprising how quickly one learns anatomy when it's being opened all around you."

Vimes knew more than he wanted to about anatomy himself. "And bandaging, eh?"

"Tourniquets. And the use of moldy bread poultices to treat wound fever." She shrugged. "You pick it up here and there, like I said."

He frowned. Moldy bread…that reminded him of something Lawn had used. Oh well. "Can you handle a sword?"

"Not prettily," said Audax. "I can make it go where I want it to and I can stop other people from sticking their swords into me."

"None of this Marquis of Fantailler rubbish," Vimes said dryly. "Well, we're short a man since old "Fuggy" Carson quit last month. I'll start you as a lance-constable. We've already got a medical man in the Watch, so I'm not sure we'll need your expertise in that field…"

Audax gave him a weary grin. "I bet he's good," she said.

Vimes raised an eyebrow, filing away the shark's teeth for future reference. "Why do you say that?"

"The stitching. Only met one man who could sew a seam that fine and straight, and he was an…"

"Igor," finished Vimes, fingering the scar on his cheek. It hardly showed up at all now, except when he was really magnificently angry, when it stood out as a red line on a face gone dangerously pale. Normally nobody noticed it at all. "Yes. He's modern, though. Only lisps some of the time."

Audax blinked. "I like it here already," she said. "Sir."

Vimes tapped ash off his cigar. "Good. See how you feel in a week. Go on downstairs and get Nobby or Colon to swear you in and give you your armour. You'll, um, need to take the breastplate round to the armourer's and have it, um, adjusted. Corporal Angua knows a place that does it for cheap."

She got up, saluted crisply. "Yes, sir. Sir?"

"Yes, Lance-Constable Audax?"

"Just….it's nice to finally meet you. You're rather famous now."

"Oh, hell," said Vimes. "We're not going to do the hero-worship thing, are we?"

"No fear," Audax grinned. "You're a lot shorter than I thought. Sir." And she was gone, his office door closing slowly behind her.

Vimes leaned back in his chair and absently reached for the bottom drawer of his desk before realizing what he was doing. Maybe he should have asked if she was some weird new form of undead.

He had a nasty feeling that Lance-Constable Audax might be a lot more trouble than she was worth.

**

Lord Vetinari stared at the piece of paper on his gleaming desk as if this would make it go away. It remained stubbornly extant, the printed words staring back at him with blameless unconcern. He'd read it several times:

TO PATRICIAN OF ANKH-MORPORK STOP PLAGUE IS SPREADING AMONG PLAINS CITIES STOP FIVE THOUSAND DEAD SO FAR STOP CLOSE CITY STOP LET NO ONE ENTER STOP SIGNED QUEEN KELIREHENNA I

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sto Lat was tiny compared to Ankh-Morpork, and if five thousand were already dead in the Sto Plains, it represented a sizeable portion of the population. 

He really, really didn't need this. 


	2. Oh, dear

The Unexpected II

Again, disclaimer: none of the Discworld characters or related indicia are mine, I'm making $0 off this, and it's all done in good fun, eh? Leggo me ear!

"They didn't believe me," said Anton Mirill, slumping onto his bed. His roommate shrugged.

"Can you blame them? Showing up at the Watch House at four in the morning gibbering about death and destruction?"

"Well, they ought to be used to it," said Mirill. "Look, I can't help what I saw. I _know_ it's going to happen. I can _feel_ it."

"Good for you. Excellent. You'll get top marks in scrying," said his roommate, who was from Uberwald and didn't have any truck with Seeing The Future. "Even if it does happen, this plague, we'll get through it. We've got through plagues before."

"Not like this one," said Mirill crossly. "I saw half the city dead. Bodies everywhere."

"Well, then, that'll cut down on the overpopulation," yawned his roommate. "Go to sleep, Anton. You can't save the world on your own, and we have class tomorrow."

Mirill scowled at him. "Do you always have to be so damn matter-of-fact?"

"As a matter of fact," said Radu Florescu von Uberwald, "yes. It's in my blood, you see." *

**

Audax leaned against the wall of Remitt the armourer's, arms folded, watching as the dwarf hammered out her breastplate. He'd got what she could only describe as a....form.........to hammer the metal over, and she found her gaze transferring itself slowly to Sergeant Angua where she sat beside the forge.Lucky we're almost the same size, she thought. The other woman didn't like her; that was plainly obvious, which was fine by Audax. Very few people liked her. Nevertheless, there was something odd about Angua. She wondered if they'd met before somewhere, and decided it was extremely unlikely. Angua didn't look more than about twenty-five or six, and certainly memorable; even in the heat of battle, Audax thought she'd be able to remember that face. ** Nobby'd muttered something about her and Captain Carrot, whom she hadn't met yet. According to general rumor, he was the rightful ruler of the city. Undoubtedly a complete prat.

Remitt drenched the breastplate in greasy water with a hiss, and handed it to her. "Try that on, miss."

She grinned, adjusting herself, and rapped the metal sharply. "It'll do. Thanks. How much do I owe you?"

"Two dollars," Remitt said smoothly, and was a little taken aback by her teeth as she grinned.

"Care to repeat that?"

"One-and-six," he said a little crossly, which was the price Angua had quoted her. She fished in her money-pocket, which she'd sewn into the leather jerkin she wore under the mail, and handed it over. 

"Much obliged," she said, and buckled on the breastplate, shoving her helmet on her head and shaking herself as the layers of metal and leather settled into place. "Good evening to you."

Remitt watched them go, wondering. The shorter one hadn't been a .........what the taller one was, but she was dangerous nonetheless. Might be worth watching. 

Outside, Angua was waiting for her. "Not bad," she said, grudgingly. "Most people'd have paid what he asked and gone away happy."

"Mmm," said Audax. "However, what he did was only worth about a dollar, and if I'd had the forge and the, ah, special anvil, I'd have done it myself for less. Where are we going?"

"Patrolling up Elm Street." Angua fell into the _proceeding_ walk, gentle and steady and easy to keep up all night. Absently, Audax fell in step beside her. She could feel the other woman looking at her with the measuring glance of the not-quite-convinced. "What're you doing here?" Angua asked, after a minute. "Really."

"Really?" She smiled a bit. "Doing what I do best. Watching." She'd realized what was odd about her companion.

Angua made a wordless little noise of discontent and kept walking. Audax fished out a dogend from behind her ear and lit it with her magical cylinder, unconcernedly. "So," she said. "What are you?"

Angua turned like a snake and stared at her. "What do you mean, what am I?"

She shrugged. "It's okay if you don't want to tell me. I'm just curious."

Angua stopped and gave her a measuring glance. She smiled, shrugging. "It's fairly obvious. The teeth, first off, and then the way you move; it's almost perfect but not quite. A little too....streamlined, shall we say?"

Angua kept staring.

"And of course there's this," she continued, fishing out a silver ring on a chain briefly and watching as Angua's face stiffened. "Kind of a giveaway. You went all cold and distant as soon as you got close enough to me to feel it."

Angua's stare had a little of the smoky campfires of the Pleistocene in it. Audax sighed. "Look....I don't give a molly what you are. Just trying to get things out in the open. If it makes you feel any better, my great-grandfather was an _eylak_, up in the mountains. The Kuriscu clan."

Angua blinked. "The shape-changers?"

"The same. You look a bit more high-class," she said, tilting her head. "Family of one of the Barons around Bonk, no doubt."

Angua sighed. "Look," she said. "Let's go and have a drink, okay?"

"What a good idea." Audax gave her a pointy grin and let herself be led down a side street, past businesses open rather later than one would expect, and noted absently that the young ladies of the area were also out rather late, and didn't seem to be able to afford many clothes. Ah, she thought. This is familiar.

So were the footsteps behind them. Angua glanced at her and saw nothing more than mild, unconcerned curiosity; but before she could turn, snarling, Audax's fist blurred, moving just a little too fast for the eye to follow, and met a jaw with a sound like a hammer striking raw steak. The man who'd been trying to sneak up on them made a thick helpless noise and crumpled to the cobbles. Audax turned, shaking some life back into her hand, and looked down at him.

"Oh dear," said Angua mildly, kneeling down by him. "Poor old Fingers Murphy. You didn't have to hit him _that_ hard."

Audax shrugged. "I don't like being crept up on," she said, joining Angua by the recumbent thief and gently tilting his jaw this way and that. "Not even dislocated. He'll be fine, minus a tooth or so."

"You _do_ know about the Thieves' Guild?" Angua asked.

"Oh yes. However, I feel that my need of my own money is a little greater than theirs." Audax flipped open the man's cloak, exposing a tunic embroidered with rather expensive silks. "Lessons learned, eh?"

Angua sighed. "Drink," she said. "Now."

Lord Vetinari paced, visible to careful watchers in Sator Square as a thin black silhouette moving with measured intent back and forth across the dim yellow glow of his office window. This would, on the face of it, seem to be a stupid thing to do in a city where half the inhabitants wanted him dead and the other half wanted him to stay in nominal control but report to them for orders, but Havelock Vetinari was clever enough to get away with doing apparently foolish things. As a matter of fact, the window of the Oblong Office was guarded by an extremely fine mesh of _miridathrium_, the rarest and most valuable metal on the Disc***; it would stop anything short of a siege crossbow while remaining as transparent as silk chiffon. Not even Drumknott knew about the screen, and Vetinari took pains to let this state of affairs remain so.

He paused by the window, watching the darkened city scurry about its business. The clacks from Sto Helit had come that evening, and it only took an hour or so for the signal to transmit from city to city across the tower network. What he had to do now was decide whether or not to do as Kelirehenna advised and shut down all access to Ankh-Morpork; the queen had never particularly distinguished herself as a paragon of wisdom or clear thinking, and Ankh-Morpork wasn't the kind of city one closes off with impunity; the lifeblood of the city was trade, and thousands of thousands of pounds of goods entered and left by the gates day after day. They had enough supplies inside Ankh to survive a few months, certainly, but it would be unpleasant.

Someone knocked at the Oblong Office door. Vetinari didn't move from the window; after a moment Drumknott's equine face appeared round the door. "Clacks for you, my lord. Urgent."

The Patrician turned, strode to his desk. Drumknott approached and handed him the slip of paper, standing diffidently to one side of the desk as Vetinari scanned the message. It wasn't good news.

TO LORD VETINARI FROM BARTHOLOMEW RODLEY DUKE OF QUIRM STOP PESTILENCE IS APPROACHING QUIRM STOP WARN YOU DO NOT LET REFUGEES INTO CITY STOP SCREEN ALL MESSENGERS FOR DISEASE STOP STOCKPILE SUPPLIES STOP GOOD LUCK.

Vetinari sighed. "Drumknott," he said. "Summon Commander Vimes. The Watch is going to find itself very much needed."

**

"Pointy teeth?" said Carrot mildly, polishing his breastplate. He and Nobby, along with several of the other guards, were waiting for the first night patrol to come off duty. "What, like vampire teeth?"

"No, just sorta.....pointy," said Nobby. "Said she'd 'ad 'em sharpened. To scare the criminals."

Carrot frowned. "How odd. Did she say anything else?"

"Not really. She's been in the army though. Some regiment I never 'eard of."

Carrot refrained from pointing out the multitudes of regiments this left open for question. "I see," he said, rubbing the breastplate with his sleeve and scowling at it. Someone's pike had left a nasty scratch in the mirror surface. "I'm sure she'll be a credit to the Watch," he said. "She's out with Angua?"

"Yeah," said Nobby, looking pointedly at him. "Alone."

"Well, I'm sure Angua can take care of her," said Carrot comfortably. "Angua's very good with new recruits."

Yeah, thought Nobby, and after a night's patrol with her half of them unaccountably decide the Man's Life ain't the life for them. Must be the teeth, or something. Or maybe the way she doesn't even grin when she kicks you inna wossnames for being forward. He shrugged. "She's a doctor, too," he added. "Medical Officer in the Genua City Watch."

"Well, that'll come in handy," said Carrot, fastening the breastplate. "Igor does what he can, but it might be useful to have someone whose idea of medicine doesn't involve sewing new bits on." He looked a bit guilty. "Not that Igor's not a wonderful surgeon," he added. "Just......fond of experimentation."

"I dunno," said Nobby, "I sort of liked the swimming potatoes. Clever, that. Fish _and_ chips in one bite.****"

Carrot shrugged and put on a kettle for the last cup of tea before patrol. "Certainly does take all sorts to make a world," he said. 

**

And now pull away a little, the city swirling below us with the slow inexorable spin of the Disc itself; the myriad lights and darknesses of the streets fade into a general orange glow, and shrink into one point of light; all the cities of the plains around the Circle Sea are revealed now, as we rise above the clouds. It's as if a great big necklace has been broken and scattered in a total mess over a crumpled landscape of black velvet, the cities lying like jewels (and who's to say they're not, from this far up?) among the minuscule mountains and rivers of the toy landscape. And withdraw further; now we can see the jagged peaks of the Ramtops, stabbing at the thin sky, and among them the green ice spire of Cori Celesti, crowned with the semidetached central-heated hall of the Disc's Gods, Dunmanifestin; and all around it hang the lambent curtains of the _aurora coriolis_, the Hublights, rippling and dancing in the night like the breathing of the world. 

Let us move in a little, and peer through the double-glazed windows of the Great Hall. They're playing a game again; they always are, when they're not hurling thunderbolts merrily at each other or their believers, or having complicated celestial wars. This time it looks like "Exclusive Possession." Om has three hotels and both Scoone Avenue and Sator Square, but Fate takes the board with a Get-Out-Of-The-Tanty-Free card and for a moment it looks as though he's going to win. But what is this? 

Yes, it's the Lady, she of the green dress and eyes, nameless if you know what's good for you, who always shows up to spoil Fate's fun. She holds up a tiny token. It looks like a miniature alchemist's flask—an alembic, to be specific.

"May I join?" she asks in a low purring voice. Om curses colourfully and folds his arms, but the other gods look rather uneasy and exchange glances. Finally Io and Fate agree to let her in, and she counts out her money.

"I do love games," she says happily. "Don't you?"

* Along with many other things, among which were the desire to look down his long nose at everyone, the ability to turn into a fruitbat, and a rather cavalier attitude toward life and death.

**Or at least that torso.

***Not to be confused with octiron, which is also rare, but which is _magical_. Miridathrium is just rare. And very strong and light. The Cunning Artificers make watches out of it for the more obnoxious young rich lords.

****The idea never really caught on. Neither did Igor's Gogol Noses, which had rather cute little legs and lots of energy.


	3. Events proceed apace

            More of it.

No copyright infringement intended, no claim made on any of the Discworld characters or related indicia, all of whom belong to Terry Pratchett. I _said leggo me ear!!_

A/N: Gods, I love Pratchett. Every time you read his stuff you find something new and wonderful. Consider this, ye of big brains and a nodding acquaintance with dead languages: When you're a Venturi you're a Venturi all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day.

Om thumps the gameboard, causing Offler's miniature boot and Patina's gold-plated carriage to fall over (and producing a few small tsunami on the shores of the Circle Sea). "That's not fair," he says. "You're using weighted dice."

            The Lady and Fate share a condescending look as Om realizes what he's just said. "We _are gods," Blind Io remarks. "We aren't fair."_

            Om subsides, crossly, and the game resumes play. Down in the jewel-cities of the plain, things move ahead, under tenuous control. He rather wishes the Lady wouldn't _smile all the time._

**

            "Well, it wasn't really that difficult," Audax said absently, swirling the dregs of beer in her glass. "Just a question of staying out of peoples' way when they swing swords at you."

            "But the battle for Bes Pelargic was one of the bloodiest of the century," Angua pointed out.

            "Yes, well. You learn quite quickly that it's particularly bloody for the real hero idiot types who think that riding out in the middle of a battlefield on a dirty great white horse and carrying a red flag is a clever thing to do. They seem to think that the point isn't whether or not you die, it's whether you looked good doing it." She swallowed the last of the beer and waved the glass at Mr. Cheese, who refilled it silently. "Battle isn't glamorous or glorious, it's dirty and terrifying and noisy and smelly and dangerous. Once you realize that, you've got an advantage."

            Yes, thought Angua. And I bet you learned how to stay out of the way of the heroes, too. Otherwise you wouldn't be here.

            "I was lucky, anyway," Audax continued. "They had me on as a medical officer, rank of corporal. I was a bit more useful than the average grunt, so they tended to hold me back in the rear guard and make sure I was going to stay alive to patch up the others. Not that there was an awful lot I could do for them, but I tried." She was looking into the glass, and Angua thought to herself that the distant look of horror and disgust on her face wasn't due to the quality of Mr. Cheese's ale (which tended to dissolve metal tankards) so much as to the shouts of memory.  She shook herself, looked up with a grin. "Enough about me," she said. "Tell me about the job. What have I got myself into?"

            Angua smiled in spite of herself. "A few years ago I'd say _a very deep hole, but it's gotten better recently. I came in when things were still pretty messy, back when Commander Vimes was still on the bottle. Before he married Lady Sybil."_

            Audax blinked. "Not Sybil Ramkin? Big lady, likes dragons, not much for ceremony?"

            "The same. You'd heard of her all the way in Genua?"            

            "Well, sort of. She came through the city on a trip to find a rumored dragon species—the bayou dragon, I think it was—and we had to escort her as bodyguards. Nice lady, I remember, if a bit opinionated."

            Angua smiled and finished her drink. "Certainly opinionated. I'm told she showed extreme bravery when faced with a giant dragon that was attempting to destroy the city and eat her, though."

            "I'd have wet 'em," Audax said wryly. "Tell me more about her husband."

            "Vimes? Oh, Vimes is all right. He's got style, I suppose you'd say."

            "Not the most personable man I've ever met." Audax lit a roll-up and regarded Angua through a haze of smoke. "But fascinating."

            "He's just constantly disgruntled. All the time. Carrot says he hasn't ever _been gruntled. And Fred Colon taps his nose knowingly and says he was Brung Low by a Woman."_

            "Not Lady Sybil?"

            "Prior to Lady Sybil." Angua stretched. "But he's all right, really. Just about as nasty and cynical as you can get, but he tries to do the right thing. He's fine if you catch him in a good mood, but if he's cross, he'll tear you a new one as soon as look at you."

            Audax nodded. She wasn't going to ask about Carrot. She'd decided that. Nobby had made allusions to the fact that Angua and Carrot were an Item, and Audax didn't particularly feel like hearing the other woman describe her beloved in glowing terms. She'd heard about enough from the other Watchmen about how Carrot was clearly the king. And she didn't like kings.

            "What's it like under Vetinari?" she asked absently, tapping ash off her cigarette. Angua snorted.

            "Half the seamstresses in the city wonder that," she said dryly. "Vetinari is a wise and just ruler. And he has a very well-developed sense of hearing."

            Audax nodded. "Wise and just. That's what I've heard about him."

            Angua got up, tossing some coins onto the table, where they landed in a puddle and immediately began to corrode. "Come on. We've got to keep the streets safe for the citizenry."

            They proceeded down Gleam Street, nightsticks swinging gently. Angua shot a glance at her.  "Let's put it like this. He's got a mind like a corkscrew. Vimes says things like "he ought to be hung, but they can't find a twisty enough rope," but he admires him. I don't know anyone else he admires so much."

            Audax considered this. Interesting place, Ankh-Morpork. Very interesting.

**

            Anton Mirill woke up with a stifled scream, and then with an unstifled one. "Gaah, don't _do that!"_

            The forbidding shape of his roommate loomed over him, eyes glowing dim red in the dark. "You were having an extremely loud nightmare," he said reasonably. "I was going to wake you up."

            Mirill slumped back against his pillows, heart beginning to slow from its frantic pace. "Well, waking up to see _you standing over me isn't much of an improvement. Gods, what an awful dream." He shoved his damp hair out of his eyes. Radu sat down on the foot of the bed, and made an effort to get his eyes to stop glowing, because he knew how much this bothered Mirill. "It was the city---but on fire. Bodies everywhere in heaps, you know, like wood….people scuttling through the streets like rats…….."_

            "The plague thing again?"

            "Yeah," he said, crossly. "I know we're not supposed to be able to see the future, but…"

            "Hell, stranger things have happened. Besides, some people do have precognition. Any decent medium knows that." Radu yawned. "Talk to the diviners tomorrow. Maybe someone else has been having crazy dreams."

            "Yeah," said Mirill again. He shivered. Thing was, there was almost nothing he could do about it, even if his nightmares did come true. But the pump in Marrow Lane—that was part of it. He'd seen it in the dreams so many times now. It was a focus.

            "Maybe if they shut it down," he murmured, "if they stop that…things will be better."

            "What?" Radu said sleepily from his own bed. 

            "Nothing," said Mirill, staring into the darkness. He didn't sleep again that night.

**

            Vimes looked up as Cheri Littlebottom poked her head round his door. "Sorry to disturb you, sir," she panted, "but you're to go to the Palace at once. Lord Vetinari's orders."

            Vimes groaned. It had been such a nice night so far; he didn't want to think about what Vetinari had in store for him this time. At least he couldn't get promoted any further, or required to wear any dress uniforms stupider than the one he was currently stuck with. He got up, put on his leather cloak, and followed the dwarf out of the Watch House. "Did he say what this was about?"

            "No, sir," said Cheri, hurrying to keep up with his stride. "Just that it was urgent."

            "It always is," sighed Vimes. Vetinari's terrier, they called him, among other things. He came when called, and followed orders. Sort of. Creatively. Vetinari got right up his nose, but for some reason Vimes still found himself working for the man. He supposed it was preferable to serving an inbred streak of piss like Ronnie Rust, or Carcharus Selachii, or Gale Venturi. At least Vetinari didn't pretend to be noble. 

            They arrived at the Palace, and found several members of the Night Watch already there. Carrot hurried up to them and snapped off a brisk salute. "Evening, sir. You're to go right in."

            Vimes regarded him dryly. "Why is everyone milling around here instead of walking their beats?" he inquired.

            "It's a slow night," said Carrot. "Besides, it was an APB. People get curious when Vetinari sends out a clacks to every single tower in the city demanding that you come and see him immediately."

            Vimes sighed. "Tell them to go back to work," he said. "We're not having a party." Carrot nodded and ripped off another textbook salute, and hurried off to disperse the Watchmen. Vimes looked down at the top of Cheri's helmet. "Stick around, Littlebottom. I have a feeling I might need you."

            She nodded, and he hurried into the Palace. As always, it was slightly darker than he expected, and the smell of polish and age hung heavy on the air. Drumknott was waiting for him.

            "What's this all about?" Vimes demanded, stalking past the clerk and up the stairs. Drumknott hurried to keep up. 

            "I'm sure I couldn't say," he said. 

            "We're not going to war again, are we? Or being attacked?"

            "Not as far as I know, Your Grace." Drumknott put on an extra burst of speed and reached the Oblong Office door before Vimes did. He knocked. "Commander Vimes to see you, sir."

            "Enter," said Vetinari. Vimes squared his shoulders and went in, taking up his usual position in front of the massive desk, staring at a point directly over and to the left of the Patrician's head. "Ah, Vimes."

            "Sir."

            "Vimes, I believe I have pointed out that you are extremely unpopular with every major Guild in the city," Lord Vetinari began.

            "Yes, sir."

            "And while this is regrettable, it has occasionally served its purpose." Vetinari's fingers were steepled over two pieces of paper that looked like clacks flimsies. "And it appears I must call on your specialized relationship with Ankh-Morpork once again."

            "Sir?"

            "The city needs to be shut down."

            Vimes blinked. "Sir?" he repeated, trying to parse what he'd just heard. Vetinari's face tightened a little.

            "If you go on saying "Sir" in that confused voice, you will be very sorry," he said. "I repeat: the city needs to be shut down. Quarantined."

            Vimes stopped himself from saying "Sir?" again by folding his arms very tight and saying "You must be deranged!" instead. 

            Vetinari gave him a long cool look. "Excuse me, Sir Samuel?"

            "I mean," he said hastily,  "you can't close Ankh-Morpork down! It can't be done—there are hundreds of carts entering and leaving the city every day, gods know how many people going in and out—and that's just by the gates! What about the harbour, or the river, or the seventeen different entrance tunnels?"

            Lord Vetinari's expression didn't change much. "I have here," he said, "two messages. One from the ruler of Sto Lat and one from the ruler of Quirm. Both of them report to me that their cities are in the grip of a particularly virulent plague, and advise me to shut the city gates at once and use all available resources to seal Ankh-Morpork from the outside."

            "Bollocks," said Vimes, but he didn't say it very loudly. Vetinari kindly pretended not to hear, and slid the messages over the desk to him. He read them with narrowed eyes, and eventually looked back up at the Patrician. "Look, sir….you know as well as I do that this is ridiculous. Locking down the city won't help; if the plague does come here, a closed gate isn't going to stop it. Things can get chucked over city walls; things can float past on rivers. Besides, enforcing it would take all my men all their time, and you and I both know what happens when we don't spend our time wisely." He straightened up. "Sir."

            "I don't have much of a choice," said the Patrician. "If the plague hits Ankh-Morpork, we'll have chaos anyway." He got up and went over to the windows, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's killed five thousand in Sto Lat already."

            "So quickly?" said Vimes, thinking. "Ye gods."

            "Quite." Lord Vetinari sighed. "Shut it down, Vimes."

            There was a tap at the door. "M'lord? The shipment of grapes from Quirm is here, and the merchant begs an audience with you."

            Vetinari turned from the window, exchanging a glance with Vimes. "From Quirm," he said.

            "Yes, m'lord. Says it's vital that he speaks with you."

            Bet I know what he's going to say, thought Vimes. Well, it's too late to shut the city gates against it. We're really in the midden now.

            Vetinari strode over to the door. For a moment Vimes considered trying to stop him, but there was very little he could have done; before the Patrician reached the door, it was thrown open, and a young man lurched in. His face was grey-white and sheened with sweat; his hair was plastered to his forehead in damp wiggles, and he was swaying like a leaf. "My lord," he gasped thickly. "My lord…there is great danger…"

            Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. "I know," he said quietly. "Take him away and see he gets medical attention. And burn the cart."

            The messenger crumpled to his knees, coughing heavily. "They're all…dying…" he managed. "All dead. My lord…send help…"

            Two of the Palace guard lifted the man to his feet. Vetinari sighed. "I will try," he said. "Go."

            When they had half-carried him away, the Patrician turned to Vimes. "You know what you have to do, I think."

            "Yes." He didn't want to think about it, but he knew. He wondered if there was anything he could do to stop _himself coming down with it, and then kicked himself mentally for being a selfish bastard. "You'll send out a proclamation?"_

            "The _Times can be useful for once," Vetinari mused. "Yes. I'm declaring a state of emergency."_

            "What about….the men who touched him?"

            "They will be given instructions." Vetinari gave him a tired glance. "Do not let me detain you, Commander."

            There it was again, Vetinari's assumption that his will would be done no matter what. This wasn't the time to make an issue of it…but Vimes knew he'd _never make an issue of it, not really. Vetinari did the ordering, and he did the fetching and carrying. That was just the way things were._

            He saluted, turned on his heel, and marched out holding his breath. And resolutely not thinking about the half-bottle of Bearhugger's he kept in his bottom drawer as a constant self-test.


	4. Calm before the storm

The Unexpected 4

Disclaimer: as before, Terry Pratchett owns Discworld, lock, stock and crossbow bolt.  And may it long become him.

            A thin drizzling rain had begun to fall over the city as two Palace guards lugged the corpse of the messenger out into the courtyard.  The body was heavier than it looked, and neither of them was particularly thrilled about the concept of touching it, not if whatever the man had died of was catching. They were both trying not to breathe.

            "'s a long way to Small Gods," said one of them, through the scarf he'd tied over his face. "'n it's raining."

            "And I bet you anything that ole bastard took 'is shovel 'ome," said his colleague.  "'Ow're we supposed to dig a grave wivout no shovel?"

            "Can't be done, I reckon," said the first guard. The greasy rain cut visibility down to ten or eleven feet. He looked around, put down his end of their burden. The rain intensified; there was no one in the streets this late on a filthy night, not even seamstresses. "No one'd know."

            "There's that ole well. Down on Nine-stone Alley by Marrow Lane. No one ever uses it."

            "That goes out to the river, dunnit?"

            His companion shrugged. The shrug said everything that needed to be said:_ it's dark, it's cold, it's raining, this poor dead bastard isn't going to care where he ends up, and I for one want to get back to the Bunch of Grapes before last call. _ They picked up the swathed form of the body and hurried off down a narrow alleyway, still trying not to inhale.

            Up in the living room of Dunmanifestin, the Lady grins an unpleasant grin.  Fate sighs. "You always did like the hand of Nemesis, didn't you?"

            "You wrong me," says the Lady, still grinning like a snake.  "I am merely injecting a little of myself into the situation."

            Om clenches his fists. He, perhaps more than any of them, is aware of the brilliant and fast-burning lives of the people who worship them, and senses things spinning out of control.

            The gods watch as, far below, the tiny figures of the palace guards carry the body of the messenger to an old, broken-down wellhead, and heave it over the parapet.  There is utter silence in heaven as they wait for the splash.

            In the depths of the Lady's green eyes, contagion spreads.

            By the time dawn came over the spires and towers of the city, Sam Vimes had been awake for more than thirty hours. Despite the fatigue and the headache that filled his skull with a deep, glassy pain, he found he was almost enjoying himself. He had something to _do_.

            He lit another cigar and blew out a thin plume of smoke, looking down the street. Since the Patrician had given the order to shut down the city, they'd mobilized both Night and Day watches, he'd had another opportunity to punch Mayonnaise Quirke directly in the mouth (and passed it up, although not without a stab of regret), every gate leading into and out of the city was blocked, and they were beginning to get the first of the angry mobs. He leaned against the Watch House wall, waiting for Carrot to join him; they were on the way to report to the Patrician.

            Audax came out of the Watch House, tossing her truncheon absently, and threw him a salute. "Morning, sir."

            Vimes nodded to her, smoking.  "You got thrown in at the deep end," he said, with a quick look at her face.  She didn't look panicked, nor did she look like she was getting ready to turn around, climb over the gates, and march straight back to Genua. She was rolling a cigarette, and doing a much neater job of it than Nobby would have.

            "You're saying this doesn't happen all the time?" she asked, with a wry smile.  "Hell, I might get bored."

            _Oh, girl_, thought Vimes, _don't get cocky. Don't get cocky with Ankh-Morpork, she'll chew you up and spit you out like she's done to hundreds of other bright young kids…._ Aloud he said, "I'm sure we can keep you entertained, Lance-Constable."

            "Sir, what do we know about this plague?"

            Vimes blinked, drew on his cigar. "Not really enough. It kills lots of people very fast."

            "I gathered that," she said. "What about methods of transmission? Waterborne? Airborne?"

            Vimes shrugged. "All of the above, I think. It's almost useless trying to stop it spreading in the city, I think; as long as it's in, it's going wherever it wants. Even if we could get all the people to behave and stay where they're supposed to be, there's no way we can stop the mice and rats moving about, or the dogs, or the things that live on the river." He waved his hand at the hastily-erected signs explaining the shutdown. "This wasn't my idea. It's stupid. But I suppose we've got to do _something_."

            "Fair enough," said Audax. "But I'd suggest that we do something about water. Genua had a habit of developing waterborne plagues, and the only way we could slow it down was to shut down the public fountains and pumps and bring water in from outside."

            "We can't do that," said Vimes automatically. "The whole city's in deadlock. No one gets in, no one gets out."

            Audax looked at him, through a veil of smoke. "Nobody?"

            Vimes had a sudden premonition of doom. "What are you trying to say, Lance-Constable?"

            "Nothing, sir. Only that every city as big and as old as Ankh-Morpork has to have some secret entrances and exits." She paused. "Sir, I might suggest that you get your wife and child out of the city as soon as you can."

            Vimes stared at her.

            She stared back.  He was struck, again, by how odd she looked: the pointed teeth weren't in evidence, but the combination of lank pale hair and poison-green eyes made her look rather like something out of the horror-books that sold for a few pennies on the streetcorners. Something about her reminded him of Angua, not in a good way.

            "What do you know, Lance-Constable?" he demanded, his voice edged with steel.

            She seemed to wilt slightly. "Nothing more than you do, sir. Just that this could get very nasty very fast, and if there's a time for vulnerable people to get out, this is it."

            "We'll see," said Vimes. "In the meantime, run down to Mossy Lawn's place and tell him to get his medical expertise up here on the double." Something was kicking his brain.  Something about water...

            "Go on," he added, when she'd shown no signs of moving. "That's an order."

            Audax threw a smart salute and trotted off out of the Watch House yard.  He watched until she disappeared, then redirected his attention to the frontrunners of the current mob, who had come into the yard rather diffidently, flaming torches and pitchforks at the ready. A slow smile spread across his face. This was something he _knew_ how to deal with.

            Dr. Lawn was expecting a summons from the Watch, and had dismissed his current patient rather hurriedly in order to pack up what he thought he might need. He didn't expect a knock on his door from a rather thin young woman in rusty chainmail.

            "Yes?" he inquired.

            "Lance-Constable Audax, Night Watch," said the woman, flashing him a badge. "Mister Vimes sent me. He wants you up at the Treacle Mine house as soon as you can get there."

            Lawn stared at her for a moment. She sighed.

            "Look," she said, "I don't know how good Mister Vimes is at dealing with contagion, but I'm told this thing kills within hours, if you're lucky. I asked around; the two Palace guards who got rid of the infected messenger's body aren't showing symptoms yet. I'm thinking it's probably not airborne, cause if it was, we'd all be dead by now. I...the Watch...needs your help."

            Lawn shook himself, turned back to his worktable and finished packing up his bag. "What do you know about this?"

            "What I've been told. There's a plague spreading across the cities of the Plains, and some absolute dimwit sent a messenger already infected with it into Ankh-Morpork. From what I can gather he died shortly after holding audience with the Patrician."

            Lawn cursed. "No reports  of the Patrician falling ill?"

            "Not that I've heard. Looks like it's really not got us yet, but it's waiting. I want to find the body of the messenger and do some tests."

            He frowned at her. "You're a Lance-Constable in the Watch. What do you know about medical tests?"

            "Mostly poisoning," she admitted. "But I've got some specially ground lenses that give me a closer look at things we couldn't see otherwise."

            "Lenses," said Lawn. "Lenses. Leonard." He made a decision. "Go back to the Watch House. Tell them I'm coming. And give me your badge."

            "What?"

            "Give me your badge. I have to get to the Palace, and I have to get access to bits of it I can't get access to as a doctor."

            "Well, shit," said Audax, and reached out for a thin flat silver plate Lawn mostly used for weighing things. She took out a penknife, flipped out a pointed instrument he thought was probably used for getting things out of horses' hooves, and scratched a fair facsimile of the Ankh-Morpork crest on it, plus the number 1771. "Here," she said, holding it out to him. "I can't remember the oath, but here's a shilling, I'm swearing you in."

            Lawn took the makeshift badge and touched the shilling before Audax drew it back and tucked it into her money-bag. "From what I gather," she said, "that number will get you into the Patrician's Palace. They give you any trouble, tell them it was a stupid Lance-Constable who put you up to it. But go."

            Lawn tucked the badge into his pocket, shouldered his bag, and went.

            Early morning in the Unseen Universities dormitories was indistinguishable from midnight. Generations of hung-over students had charmed the windows to remain black until at least ten in the morning. Mirill perched on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, and ran through all the possibilities in his mind.

            "What _is_ it?" asked Radu sleepily, rolling over. "Your eyes are positively glowing."

            "It's happening," said Mirill. "Something awful is happening. I can feel it. Can't you?"

            Radu paused, shutting his faintly lambent red eyes and thinking. "Feels like a thunderstorm's on it's way."

            "Exactly. Only it's my dream, Radu, it's happening, it's coming to pass. I can feel it. Someone's died, and it has something to do with that damned pump."

            Radu let out an exasperated noise. "Take a powder and go back to sleep, you paranoid idiot. People die in this city all the time, typically in the Shades. It's normal. I'm supernatural, I'd _know_ if something was really wrong."

In this, he was, amusingly enough, dead wrong.


End file.
